The Lost Song of Ithilien
by Ariane1
Summary: Faramir & Éowyn - Dreams of beauty in darkness.


**The Lost Song of Ithilien**

It was a secret that he held deep within his heart. It gave him comfort. A gift it was, given to him by the spirit of a land once stunning in her splendor and grace. Given to him, he thought, because he did not turn his face from her devastated beauty, but listened to her voice and understood her agony and her oppression. 

He was her sworn guardian and kept watch over her in her hours of sorrow. He would sleep and dream with her in her soft, scarred meadows or beneath the broken branches of her fragrant forests. Often, he would speak to her or sing to her, songs of olden days of the glory of Númenor. But he knew not the song of Ithilien. 

One day, having commanded his Rangers to rest after a brutal battle and a long and arduous night's journey, he climbed into the arms of an ancient cedar tree to keep watch over his slumbering men. In the early morning light, the mists which mantled the Anduin shimmered with threads of silver, and the gentle slopes, awash in dew, glinted with a thousand jewels. 

Such beauty made his heart ache, knowing that distance deceived the eye, and that if he were to examine the exquisite scene laid out before him from a closer vantage point, he would see the devastation that the dark lord and his minions had wrecked upon the land. 

Of all the horrors evil has wrought, he thought to himself, it must be this wanton destruction of beauty. He would rather a thousand citadels fall than to see the land ravaged so. This hatred of the small, beautiful things in life was curse upon the soul. He pressed his forehead against the rough and fragrant bark and frowned. He was only a man. A man in desperate times must choose his battles wisely. How many would be slain this day? What would ever blossom again beside the bloodied pools which mirrored only death in these final days of darkness? 

And then he heard a melody, soft and flowing. 

At first, he though it the voice of the stream, splashing down a hidden gully in the hill which rose behind his place of refuge, or perhaps, just a fancy of youthful dreaming, or the tiredness of his limbs for having fought so desperately in the night. He closed his eyes to listen, and the sound grew louder; the high sweet voice was joined by one of deep timbre, singing notes in counterpoint. Together, these two voices wove a beautiful net of sound around him. 

It was a song of promise which awakened within him a wild joy. In that moment, he felt his very being suffused with hope, hope which he had carefully laid aside years ago, as a child surrenders his youth to the melancholy knowledge of life. He felt the song in his blood, and let himself be carried away in the dream which the melody wove about him. 

Beauty would not end. The garden of Ithilien would bloom once more. And somewhere, in the great expanse of time, a woman of grace waited for his touch: a lily, slender, pale and resolute. He dreamed, not of her face or form, but of the spirit of her, haunted, ravaged yet proud and wild, suffering in solitude beneath the hand of darkness. He would not fail her by falling into despair. All these things passed through his mind, and he chose to believe them.

He fell asleep, nestled in arms of the cedar tree, surrounded by the sweet resinous scent and lulled by the soft notes which embraced him. For a few hours, he found solace, but when he awoke, the sky was dark and filled with the bitter perfumes of smoke and death. 

* * * * *

And so he had dreamt of her and understood her heart before he first saw her. She was the spirit of Ithilien, embodied. His beautiful land, defiled yet undaunted. She came toward him that morning in the Houses of Healing as a dream, a glimmering spirit. Grave and proud and lonely was the song which her body sang. But beneath her gentle motions was a promise, something wild and defiant, and his heart leapt toward her in remembrance.

Yet the hand of death lay upon Eowyn. It was only as she approached, and he fixed his eyes upon her countenance was he pulled back into the world of flesh and form. Long tresses of gold tumbling over strong slender shoulders, her bearing brave as she bore her hidden grief. He fathomed it the moment he beheld her--the sorrow which she hid from others less discerning than himself. 

With gentle voice, he asked her what she wished of him, that she would summon him so. And she replied, with eyes downcast, that she longed for the sun and an eastward view where she might keep a watch. A watch for what, she did not say. But as she glanced up at him, he saw her loneliness and understood she believed herself abandoned.

He was thrown into a sudden tumult of emotions; he caught his breath, pausing to calm his thoughts and feelings. Here at the end of the world, there is no place for love, he told himself. Comfort, yes. Friendship to ease the final hours. But not love. But his heart was unwilling to listen to reason. So long denied, awakened so abruptly without warning. A promise and a song. He would protect her. 

_He would love her._

Unspoken thoughts haunted him as he stared down at her. 

_I would be your sun. The sun needs the earth. Without the flower, what meaning has light? What joy in the endless burning if not to bring forth beauty? _

He spoke slowly, carefully measuring his words, "I would that you walk with me while yet the world lives. Let us keep company during these final hours as we wait upon our doom or reprieve."

"I have no heart for speech," she said. "I am silent in my heart and do not wish for words. There is much I would forget." 

"Then let us walk and keep each other silent company. Let us bear the waiting together. It would ease my heart."

She frowned. "I know not of what you speak. I have no solace to give."

He smiled softly, warmly, and she flushed, disconcerted. Her spirit, once grim and guarded, shifted beneath warmth of his eyes: opening, as a fragrant petal reaches toward the light. 

* * * * *

That night, she lay awake upon her soft bed unable to sleep. Sinking into the familiar comfort of despair, she tried to recall the features of the King, to pierce her heart with the memory of his pity. But she could not summon his face; it was as if a glimmering mist hung between her and that which she desired to see. 

And then unbidden, a different face rose before her, suffused with a brilliant, silver light. She felt an unseen presence flow about her, as if some kindly spirit had to come to comfort her, and she heard the muted echoes of a melody, soft and flowing. A shiver of happiness coursed through her; and for the first time in many months, she felt warm. It seemed to her impossible that she should feel such joy when she had lost everything. 

And when she closed her eyes at last, she dreamed of Faramir. 

~tbc~


End file.
